


Happy Birthday, Face

by Tessa54



Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Gen, Vietnam Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:42:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29781150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessa54/pseuds/Tessa54
Summary: Special occasions can slip by unnoticed in the middle of a war.
Kudos: 9





	Happy Birthday, Face

God, he was tired. Bone weary. Every muscle in his body was aching. Hell, even his hair hurt. Not even out of his teens, yet, and he felt like an old man.

And filthy. But wearing the same fatigues for seven days while hiking through the jungle, often crawling on your belly through the liquid mud of a rice paddy, will do that to you. He glanced down idly at his uniform. No point, really, in trying to get this one laundered. It would probably take ten washes just to get it clean. He doubted that any number of washes would be enough to get out the stink of sweat and blood and fetid mud. At least an hour under a hot shower to scrub the ingrained dirt out of his skin and from under his fingernails. Ha! An hour! Well, that was a joke. Lucky to get three whole minutes here… and the water would definitely be cold before the end. He smiled inwardly, thinking of Sister Mary Katherine, and how she used to chew him out for splashing mud on his trousers or not washing his hands properly, back in the day. Boy, if she could see him now she would have a whole litter of kittens on the spot.

And hungry. So damned hungry. Day after day of C-rations. They were supposed to be nutritious; supply all of the necessary calories… Another joke. That was providing that you got the time to eat them, or the water to hydrate them or, even more unlikely, the fire to heat them up. Don’t even mention that they were heavy and it probably used more energy to hump them around than they actually supplied. It would be ironic if more US troops starved to death on C-rations than the VC took out with their bullets and their booby traps.

Lieutenant Templeton Peck, Face to his friends, looked around at the rest of his Unit, slouching on rickety chairs around the big table in the Briefing Room. They were all in the same shape as he was; filthy and exhausted. BA, the indestructible Sergeant, had his head down on his forearms, resting on the table. Quiet, too. There was no banter; no-one had the energy for jokes and chatter. But at least they were all here and, apart from the inevitable cuts, scratches, sprains, strains, bruises and insect bites, all in one piece. No serious injuries and he was thankful for that… as XO it was part of his job to bring his Unit back alive. The most important part.

Well, it would soon be over. Just as soon as the Colonel finished his de-briefing with the Brass he would come here and release them. The mission would be officially over and they could all get cleaned up, eat something that passed for food, and rest. It couldn’t happen soon enough for him. Then a few days of blessed peace, hanging out with the guys, a few drinks in the Officers' Club: recuperation before the whole shooting match started again.

The door opened and Colonel “Hannibal” Smith, looking as ill-used as the rest of them, strode into the room. Everyone made the effort to sit up straight and look interested as the de-briefing began.

He forced his gritty, bloodshot eyes to focus on his CO. It was more difficult to keep his mind from wandering away from what his ears were hearing… December fourth today. Three days to go. He was planning a modest party in the billet… already had the booze squirrelled away… the guys would appreciate it, even though they had no idea what the occasion was… Hell, he didn’t even know, really. Not for certain… he dragged his mind back to the present.

“Okay, guys, that should do it,” the Colonel was saying. “You all did a good job out there. Now get some rest. I’ll be back from Saigon in three days. Behave yourselves. Dismissed.” There was a general murmur of satisfaction from the Unit, and they all rose and started to file out of the room. The Colonel spoke again. “Not you, Lieutenant. I want a word.”

Lieutenant Peck groaned quietly. What now? The mission was a success; he hadn’t made any mistakes. Had he? He forced himself to smile brightly.

“Colonel?” he asked, all attention.

“Something’s come up, Face. Another job. We’ve got Intel on a VC General, not too far away, and the Brass want him taken out. Quick in-and-out job, small team. They’ve given it to Major Collins.”

He raised an eyebrow in enquiry; tried to look interested. “And this affects us how, Hannibal?”

“While we were out on our little joy-ride Collins had some bad luck on a patrol. He lost a couple of guys. He needs a sniper, and the Brass want you, Lieutenant.”

Face groaned aloud. “Hannibal…” he began, before Hannibal laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder and cut off his protest.

“I know that you’re done-in, Kid,” he said kindly. “Believe me, I tried to talk them out of it, but you’re the best they’ve got. So you’re it.” He smiled benignly. “They’re not moving out till 0500, so that gives you plenty of time to get cleaned up and get a good night’s sleep. A whole ten hours.”

“Terrific,” muttered Face, sarcastically.

The Colonel grinned. “I knew you’d see it that way, Lieutenant. See you in three days.”

Later that evening, clean and refreshed, Hannibal dropped in to the Officers’ Club for a nightcap, and seeing their pilot, Captain Murdock, sitting alone he joined him at his table. Murdock looked expectantly at the door.

“Evening, Colonel. Where’s Face?”

Hannibal took a sip of his Scotch before replying. “Tucked up in his bed and getting in a solid eight hours, I hope, Captain. He’s out again early in the morning.” Murdock flashed him a look of disbelief. “What, Murdock?”

“So soon, Colonel? But I thought you were going up-country, so no more missions for a few days.”

“He’s on loan to another team.”

Murdock sighed. “That’s too bad… especially now.”

“Why especially now, Murdock?” Hannibal asked patiently. Murdock leaned over and whispered in Hannibal’s ear. “Damn! I forgot… Well, I’ll make it up to him,” the Colonel declared, forcefully.

Three days later, mission accomplished, de-briefed and cleaned up – though the shower was only lukewarm, and why did that not surprise him? – Lieutenant Peck dragged his weary body back to the billet. He was looking forward to collapsing onto his bunk and staying there until further notice. The hut was dark, but that didn’t surprise him. It was the dinner hour and the rest of his Unit, conspicuous by their absence when he called in earlier for a clean uniform, were probably still in the Mess Hall. Personally, he was way too tired to eat.

He turned on the light – then froze in place, startled. The whole team was there, including the Colonel, all grinning at him and shouting “Surprise!” Murdock pressed a glass into his hand. Hannibal stepped forward and slung an arm around his shoulders, leading him towards his bunk, which was covered in... food. Fresh food. Oranges, eggs, bacon, bread, chocolate, cake, brandy, good wine...

“I brought back a few things for you from Saigon. Happy birthday, Face.”


End file.
